Experiment
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Of course John has always known about his flatmate's irregular sleeping habits, especially when they're on a case. This time, however, the case is taking longer and longer, and soon John starts to worry. But there's not much he can do, is there? Because drugging Sherlock isn't an option. Not yet, maybe, but will it be soon?
1. Preparation

I don't own those characters, as always.

* * *

_Experiment_

1. Preparation

* * *

Eight days. It had been eight days.

At least that was how long John Watson had been keeping track.

They had had a case, of course, a complicated one. Or two cases, rather, two break-ins resulting in two corpses - and no suspects, nothing to go on, as it seemed to John.

And yet, Sherlock had been investigating, had been convinced that there had to be a link somewhere, a link that nobody had picked up on yet.

He had spent the past few days in a blur of activity, scrutinising the crime scenes, talking to Lestrade, attempting to convince him to suspect a connection, questioning witnesses who in the end turned out to know nothing, researching cold cases similar to the current ones, analysing data with Molly at the morgue, staring into his microscope at 221B.

But not sleeping.

It hadn't been until the sixth day that John had grown worried. Not until Sherlock had stumbled in the kitchen and almost knocked his precious microscope off the table. Sherlock never stumbled. Lest alone in the kitchen.

Or until Sherlock had repeatedly interrupted himself when talking to Lestrade or John, his faltering, however, not followed by an orgasmic 'oh', but rather by a look of utter confusion on his face.

When Lestrade had addressed him with his name, his voice clearly saying 'worried', Sherlock had only snapped at him tetchily, continuing with his speech, about an entirely different train of thought.

John wasn't stupid. Of course he had realised what was going on, had noticed the dark smudges beneath Sherlock's eyes and his irritability.

"Maybe you should take a break," he had suggested in the evening of the sixth day. "Just for a few hours. Eat a proper meal and sleep for a bit. You know, I'm sure Lestrade will manage a few hours without…"

Sherlock's only reaction had been to cut him off and snarl: "I'm fine without your advice, thank you, _Doctor_!" And to of course not go to bed, even when John had retired for a nap.

He had, however, kept a close eye on Sherlock the next two days, noticing all the little details telling him that Sherlock's sleep-deprived body was about to revolt against its harsh treatment, but always being subdued by Sherlock's brain, entirely focused on 'work'.

He stumbled twice within ten minutes, and lost train of thought exactly four times, and one time, in the morgue with Molly, started swaying on his feet, almost spilling the contents of a vial with acid over his right forearm.

John rushed to his side, quickly grabbing the vial and shoving Sherlock to a chair - in which he collapsed, all colour drained from his face.

Of course John didn't miss the concerned and confused look Molly shot him as he crouched down in front of Sherlock, who was sluggishly rubbing his eyes.

"'m fine, John," he insisted, trying to push John away and get to his feet again.

"I can see that," John had replied, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock and not letting him get up. "Molly will get you a glass of juice which you will drink, and only then you're allowed to get up. To get up, get into a cab and drive straight to Baker Street - and go to bed."

"'m not tired…," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yeah," was John's only reaction. "That's why you almost fainted with a vial containing acid in your hand."

Luckily for John, busy with keeping Sherlock seated, Molly had been kind enough to indeed fetch a glass of juice, blushing while handing it to Sherlock who indeed drank it as John had insisted. Without any complaints. Worryingly so, in fact.

"Come on, Sherlock, we're leaving," John had urged him soon afterwards, giving Molly an excusing smile. "Sorry, Molly, and thank you…"

Sherlock had already wrapped his scarf around his neck with shaking hands, watching John's attempts to be polite with utter disgust on his face. "Come on, John," he demanded. "First you expect me to…" Then, suddenly, his eyes had drifted off into space, going wide, causing John to already prepare himself for having to catch Sherlock when his flatmate had abruptly turned around, pacing quickly. "Of course," he had muttered. "Of course."

John and Molly had both flinched when Sherlock had pointed his right hand at her. "Molly, you weren't wearing any perfume earlier. Then you put on your coat, and suddenly… Of course, of course! How could I not see it? Perfume! Lingering on… Of course! Come on, John, we need to do some research."

With that, he had hurried off, leaving it to John to apologise to Molly once more and to rush after him.

And that had been how they had ended up investigating further instead of going home and resting.

Sherlock had deemed John worthy to be let in on his thoughts - traces of the same perfume lingering in both victims' clothes, but not of the victims' perfume - in the cab they had hailed, and while trying to follow his flatmate talking about perfume and clothes and traces and linked, he had completely forgotten about his mission to get Sherlock to sleep, adrenaline taking over, being entirely caught by the case and the near break-through.

The lead had been the decisive one, even convincing Lestrade that it had been the same murderer, and so they had returned home early in the morning in high spirits.

Home where Sherlock had spent the entire three minutes it had taken John to pay the cab driver, get back the change and wish him a good day with fiddling with his keys in front of the door, not succeeding in unlocking it.

That had been the moment, the adrenaline rush slowly fading, when John had remembered that Sherlock needed sleep - urgently.

By the time they had reached their flat, Sherlock had stumbled twice and was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.

"Sherlock," began John as he collapsed into his armchair, feeling weary himself. "Don't you think now would be the time to go to bed for a while?"

"Bed? What? No," Sherlock had mumbled distractedly, his hands steepled beneath his chin, pacing in their living room.

"Sherlock…," John began again. "You're proven that there _is_ a connection and you even managed to show Lestrade those fingerprints which were present at both crime scenes. Don't you think he'll be able to do the rest himself?"

"Something," Sherlock muttered under his breath, almost falling over the table. "Something I'm missing, something…"

"Sherlock," John had addressed him, louder and more firmly this time.

"What!" Sherlock had yelled, turning around in a whirl. Too fast, in fact, the movement causing him to almost fall over.

Vertigo. Brilliant.

"'m fine without you help," Sherlock muttered, reaching for his head, probing his temples for a moment with a confused look. Headache, then, too. And puffy eyes. "Fine, John, you hear me? And now go to bed or whatever you waste your time with, leave me in peace and just _let me _think!"

John had indeed shut up for a couple of seconds, not sure whether he should be annoyed, worried or utterly furious.

"Alright," he eventually had stated curtly. "Do whatever you want. Wreck your transport. I don't care. I'll go to bed."

While climbing the stairs to his room, John found himself suddenly remembering the pack of prescription sleeping pills he still kept for emergencies.

* * *

First part, so far.

Hope you enjoyed it. And thank you for reading!

3


	2. Conducting

Part 2, then... Enjoy.

* * *

_Experiment_

2. Conducting

* * *

Five minutes later, John was sitting in his room, on his bed, staring at the said pack of prescription sleeping pills he still owned for nights when he couldn't find any sleep despite the sounds of the violin being played downstairs.

_Wreck your transport__…_

Which Sherlock was about to do.

And John was honestly debating with himself whether to try and slip Sherlock some pills or whether not.

He didn't need to read the package insert to know about possible side effects, and he didn't even want to think about how Sherlock would react if he did it, in fact…

But then, letting Sherlock go on and wait for him to simply collapse, collapse in any situation, on a crime scene, alone, maybe even while confronting or chasing their murderer… Not an option either, John decided. Definitely not.

And even more certainly not since it had happened before, during a press conference at the Yard, the result of which being one week of taking care of Sherlock, sick with a bout of flu.

It wouldn't take long until he collapsed, not with their more than one week lasting case, with close to no sleep at all for Sherlock and malnutrition, probably. As well as dehydration. And they had had another case just before that one, even more days of sleep deprivation. Eventually, even Sherlock's body would give in. Give in and shut down. Because his flatmate couldn't take care of himself. Because he didn't think about anything else except the case. A sigh escaped John.

What Sherlock was doing to himself was not healthy. And yet, John couldn't bring himself to… well, yes, sedate him.

A loud thud from downstairs, followed by a crashing noise, made him flinch. Fearing the worst, he stuffed the package of pills into his trouser pocket and made for rushing down the stairs.

x

John didn't slow down upon entering their living room, thoughts of Sherlock having staggered and fallen and broken his arm or leg or whatever flashing in his mind.

What he did see in fact was Sherlock, almost lying under the table, a dazzled expression on his face.

Stumbled again, and crashed against the table, in the process shattering a glass and two plates, the shards spread out all over the floor.

And in Sherlock's left arm, apparently, bleeding slightly from where he had cut himself on the shards, probably trying to stop his fall.

John suddenly became aware of the package he still carried with him.

Microsleep, probably, Sherlock's brain just shutting down for a few seconds. It _was _time to sleep, John thought.

"You looking for something?" he asked as neutrally as possible and headed for the kitchen, boiling water to make tea.

"Hm." Sherlock only grunted, slowly getting to his feet and immediately flopping down on a chair. "Mrs Hudson's due to clean the floor today anyways…"

John didn't respond, but rather waited for the kettle to boil and the tea to steep. It was surprisingly easy to crush one of the pills and slip it into Sherlock's mug, pouring tea over it, without him noticing.

"Your arm is bleeding," he remarked as he grabbed boths mugs and placed one in front of Sherlock.

"Hm," was the distracted answer. "Oh, yes. As I said, Mrs Hudson's going to clean the floor anyways…"

John's brow furrowed automatically. "I think I should have a look at th…"

"Not necessary," Sherlock cut him off, massaging his temples again. "Will stop. Has, already."

Well then. One more reason to make Sherlock sleep. Even though it still made John feel uneasy. Don't let anything on.

"So," he began as casually as possible. "Did you get anywhere with your… thinking?"

Sherlock took a large sip, not bothering with a 'thank you' for tea at 6 o'clock in the morning, and scowled. "Something's missing, something…," he muttered, his words not even directed at John.

John's worry didn't increase yet as Sherlock resumed his pacing with his half-empty mug in his right hand a few minutes later, but he instead continued to drink his own tea quietly. As quietly as possible, that was.

"The fingerprints are the same, yes, but the victims must have known their murderer, otherwise…" Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes went wide. "John?"

So quickly?

John almost spilled the contents of his mug as he scrambled to his feet, rushing to Sherlock and grabbing his outstretched left arm. His left arm with those tiny cuts on it.

"John… what…?" Sherlock slurred, blinking heavily, his knees buckling beneath him.

He almost managed to chin John as he collapsed to his knees, his arms flailing.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"It's alright, Sherlock. Just relax. You'll be fine," John told him, talking the now empty mug, the rest of the tea having been spilled all over the room, from his limp grip.

"J'n!" Sherlock slurred protestingly, his eyes wide open but unfocused. "You… you… drugged… me! J'n…"

All of a sudden, his head lolled forward, his entire body slumping to the side, and John found himself with his knocked out flatmate in his arms on the floor of their living room.

x

It was a bit annoying, in fact, that Sherlock had chosen to pass out on the floor, meaning that John had to practically drag him to his bedroom and drop him on his bed, lazily drawing the covers up. And it was, maybe, just a tiny bit, disconcerting that the amount of time the pill had needed to take effect had been so short.

After making sure that there were no shards left in Sherlock's left arm and that there was basically no damage done _and_ after having put three plasters to three cuts, John hesitated for a moment beside Sherlock's bed, biting his lip and staring down at his finally sleeping flatmate. Or was he sleeping? Although he felt silly in doing so, he reached down, grabbed Sherlock's wrist and measured his pulse. Fine, entirely normal. As was his breathing.

Overreacting, then, John told himself. Time to sleep for him, too, although he had taken a nap whenever possible, in contrast to Sherlock.

He didn't make it to his own room. The sofa was closer and not requiring stairs. Closer now and closer to Sherlock, in case anything should occur. Whatever. Although John's logical mind told him he _was _fussing, he couldn't help it. Couldn't make the echo of Sherlock's voice, accusingly muttering 'you drugged me', disappear.

The sofa was it, then, John decided and left the door to Sherlock's room wide open.

Sagging down on the sofa, he tiredly cuddled into a blanket and turned to face the wall, half-prepared to jump up any second because of any noises coming from Sherlock's room, through his open door.

Before he could even wonder what to do then, he had nodded off.

* * *

Feedback is of course always very welcome...


	3. Result

Here's the third - and final - part. Finally, as you might say, since I haven't been at home until yesterday, away without access to the internet or the chance to write.

Thank you for all your support regarding the previous chapter, and now I hope you like what you're going to read.

* * *

_Experiment_

3. Result

* * *

John was woken seven hours later by Mrs Hudson tutting upon entering, with a stiff neck and various other achy limbs.

"Oh, John, dear," she chatted merrily. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Sorry, dear. Wait a moment, I'll make you a cuppa!"

John stayed on the sofa for a few more seconds, pondering how exactly he had ended up kipping in the living room. They had come home, and then… Of course. He had given Sherlock the sleeping pill - and hadn't wanted to be too far from his flatmate.

"Back in a moment, Mrs Hudson!" he shouted towards the kitchen and jumped to his feet, heading towards Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's door was just as open as John had left it, and Sherlock himself was still in his bed, sprawled out across its entire breadth. And snoring, funnily enough. John remained in his exact position for a few moments, listening to his friend's breathing, not being able to resist the urge to smile, and after having pulled up the covers a bit, he turned around and left, this time closing the door.

A mug of steaming tea had already been sat on the table for him, awaiting John.

"Mrs Hudson, you're perfect," he called out as he took the first sip.

Said lady appeared from the kitchen, hands on her hips, huffing increduously. "What have you done to my carpet, and to my plates, and my glass? And left it to me to clean up the mess, all those shards…"

John smiled and took another sip. "Get yourself a cuppa, too, Mrs H. I'll take care of that later."

Minutes later, Mrs Hudson took a seat beside John on the sofa.

"Where's Sherlock, John, dear? Another domestics?" she asked, smiling.

John allowed himself to yawn widely. "Sorry, Mrs H," he apologised immediately. Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder gently. "Sherlock's sleeping."

"Sleeping? Dear Lord, John, finally. Your case is over, then? I'll make you breakfast. You should take another nap, too, you know. You two are sleeping far too little…" she mumbled quietly, already back on her way to the kitchen.

John stifled another yawn and smiled.

x

It took Sherlock about twenty-four hours longer than John to reappear in the living room. Although John had checked on him several times, he had never found any reason to worry - for Sherlock, such a long period of simply sleeping was common, especially after having been awake for God knew how long.

John was busying himself with the paper when he noticed his flatmate to enter, still in the clothes he had worn when John had dragged him to bed, now of course horribly crumpled and in disarray. His hair was tousled and ruffled, but the funniest part was his expression: baffled, somehow, and still sleepy. John almost broke into a chuckle, despite his increasing worry about what Sherlock was going to say.

"Good morning," he uttered instead, not abandoning his paper. "Slept well?"

Sherlock only grunted non-committally. "Why am I still wearing my clothes?" he finally asked.

John raised his eyebrows simultaneously to lowering his paper. "Because you didn't undress and change clothes?" he suggested.

Sherlock looked utterly bewildered for a moment - a short moment before rolling his eyes and grunting again. "Brilliant, John," he mumbled, resting his arms on the table and letting his head loll forward. "Brilliant deduction. And why exactly was it that I didn't undress?"

John slowly took a sip from his mug. "You were a bit… well… sleepy."

Sherlock's head shot up again. "Sleepy!" he protested. "I am never _sleepy_!"

"Yes you are," John mumbled more to himself, but Sherlock had heard him.

"I am not!" he insisted. "But…" He slouched once more, sighing, resting his head on the table. Only seconds later, he straightened again, looking at John accusingly. "You drugged me!" he exclaimed. "You put something in my tea and… Don't try to deny it, I _know _you drugged me!"

Although his heart clenched painfully, John only shrugged, picking up his paper again. "Well, I had to make sure that you wouldn't cause too much havoc with your transport and brain, didn't I?"

Sherlock only grunted and rubbed his eyes. "How could I not have noticed? How could I…"

"Well, you were too much focused on the case, claiming that something was missing…"

"The case!" Sherlock interrupted him, bolting upright at once. "John, come on, we need to go to Scotland Yard, surely Lestrade…"

"The case," John said slowly, enjoying the look of impatience on Sherlock's face, "is solved. Lestrade caught the murderer last night, thanks to the fingerprints you managed to find. And what was missing was that the murderer had been a former teacher of both victims."

Sherlock slumped, scowling. "Of course. How stupid of me. The same pattern of writing, wasn't it? Oh, never mind."

Silence emerged for a few seconds.

"You drugged me," Sherlock repeated, sounding unbelieving. "John…"

The feeling of guilt increased a tiny bit. "It was that, or either have you collapse somewhere and cause damage to your brilliant brain! Sherlock, seriously, you can't just simply decide that you don't need to sleep and stay awake for eight days in a row…"

"Nine," Sherlock corrected him lazily.

John couldn't believe it. Nine days. "Jesus, Sherlock! Do you even know what kind of complications long time sleep deprivation can cause? And no, don't tell me it's just transport."

"But John!" Sherlock protested. "I was in the middle of a case."

John finally laid his newspaper aside. "You had almost solved it by then! As I said, Lestrade could do the rest on his own."

Sherlock only huffed.

"And don't try to claim that you don't feel better now," John reminded him. "Because I wouldn't believe you that."

Sherlock moaned exasperatedly. "And why the hell did you let me sleep in my clothes? I feel… disgusting."

John almost spat his tea all over the table. "Seriously, Sherlock, there was no way I was going to undress you so that your precious suit could remain that well-ironed…"

"But you drugged me, didn't you? Why not take care of anything else?" Sherlock teased, staring at John intently.

John stared back. "Nope," he answered.

"And putting sleeping pills in my tea is OK?" Sherlock asked.

Another slight pang of guilt. But then, there hadn't been another way except for letting Sherlock collapse completely - on his own. "It was for an experiment," John defended himself, saying the second thing to come to his mind.

Sherlock looked absolutely dumbfounded for a few seconds before he started chuckling. John joined in moments later, feeling all the stress and tension from the case finally wash away. Sherlock was fine, really fine, and had even slept. And since the case was over by now…

"Mrs Hudon's left you some breakfast in the kitchen," he told his flatmate, almost anxiously waiting for a reaction.

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, getting up, turning towards his room. "Starving. Tea, too?"

John nodded, taking another bite of his toast.

Minutes later, Sherlock was back, now in a t-shirt and his dressing gown, though still wearing his customary trousers, heading for the kitchen. "Hope you didn't infect her," he called from the kitchen. "Or has she taken to doing experiments, too?"

The thought of Mrs Hudson sitting in front of a vial, staring at it intently, or the thought of her attempting to drug Sherlock was so comical John almost choked on his toast. "Don't think so," he replied as soon as he was able to draw breath again.

Sherlock reappeared, a plate and a mug in his hands, set both on the table and flopped down on his chair. "An experiment," he muffled in between two bites. "John, you never cease to surprise me. And I didn't notice… Stupid."

John eyed him for a few moments, trying very hard to find anything, anything at all, that would tell him whether Sherlock actually felt betrayed. Whether he was angry. 'Will you forgive me', was simply nothing you could ask Sherlock Holmes.

"You know that you should sleep more often," he said instead. "And more regularly. Even during cases. And you should eat, you really should remember to eat and drink…"

"Why," Sherlock interrupted him, chewing. "What for?"

Dumbfounded, John couldn't find any words.

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I do happen to have a doctor around to remind me of such trivial things."

John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. Really? Because what he had just said was a good as a thank you. "Right," he stated curtly, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock sighed as he took another bite, narrowing his eyes. "I am hopeful that there will not be further complaints about body parts in the fridge. Since you now know how it is to need something for an experiment."

Forgiven, then. "Only if you actually go to bed sometimes. And stop to have some food."

A scowl was all he got. "Depends," Sherlock finally stated.

John hid his smile behind the paper. "No heads," he demanded.

"Fine," Sherlock agreed grumpily and took a sip from his mug. "And no sleeping pills."

Although John nodded, it wasn't a promise, and they both knew.

But as long as he was there to indeed remind Sherlock of vital things such as eating and sleeping, they might not need any pills again. Neither for Sherlock nor for himself.

* * *

That's it, then.

What did you think? It took me a while to write this, in fact, because I wasn't totally sure about possible reactions. But whenever I pondered this question, THoB came to my mind, THoB and how easily John got over the fact that _Sherlock_ had locked him in the lab. Normally, Sherlock's the one to drug people, and somehow, it just felt right that way, not dramatic and along the tone of the other two parts.


End file.
